A bit not good, Sherlock
by Desperate For Attention
Summary: From: Sherlock Holmes: Got a case. Will update later. Rosie coming. Don't worry. We'll bring tea. – SH John felt his stomach lurch at the thought, his innocent little girl strapped to the chest of a snot nosed Sherlock while he deduced some poor souls gruesome end. Mary would be turning in her grave to know that their only child was probably sat her pink romper blood stained


**A bit not good**

John was furious. Beyond furious. Especially after he had left twelve unanswered voicemails and over a thousand text messages on Sherlocks phone; each one unopened and unread as far as he could tell. It had started at midday. His phone buzzed in the pocket of his jacket as he chatted and smiled with good old Mrs. Goggins about her phantom leg pain—a quick write up for her regular pain medication and a lecture later about her wayward grandson and he'd fished the phone from his pocket and promptly jumped out of his chair.

It was Sherlock, of course it had been Sherlock aside from Lestrade and Mycroft his phone never even blinked never mind signalled an incoming message. Even then the pair where usually only texting or calling to find out about Sherlocks latest case—or a plea for the good doctor to come and collect him before he was seriously injured. Usually by the Police force rather than the perp.

 _From: Sherlock Holmes  
Got a case. Will update later. Rosie coming. Don't worry. We'll bring tea. – SH_

His Rosie! John felt his stomach lurch at the thought, his innocent little girl strapped to the chest of a snot nosed Sherlock Holmes while he stepped all over the hard work of the police and examined a dead body. It wouldn't even be a nice dead body; well as far as the deceased went. Sherlock was only interested in murders and the most gruesome ones at that. Mary would be turning in her grave to know that their only child was probably sat in a pie of entrails with her baby pink romper stained in blood.

That was when the voicemails began, locking the door and calling out to the receptionist to cancel his appointments for the next hour. It had been the raised voice and the thud of Johns mobile against the wall thirty minutes later that had wisely prompted her to cancel them for the rest of the afternoon. Sherlock had pointedly ignored his calls; he could almost see the arsehole rolling his eyes and grumbling to Rosie about what a distraction her father was.

Pompous prick.

After the sixty-third text message, he called up Lestrade instead, hoping to at least get a location from the DI; the call had gone to his voicemail and John suspected that he had let it go to voicemail deliberately in fear of John calling a stop to Sherlock while he was on a role. John vowed to make sure Sherlock was even more obnoxious on their next case. Especially about Greg and his fancy new bird.

He had stayed at the surgery until five and the last patient was leaving; not that he had seen any of them. Between growling at his phone and sulking over the photo of his now corrupted baby girl. Johns regulars had opted for a new doctor or written off their visit all together. His colleagues however were almost use to seeing him pent up and practically foaming at the mouth while yelling at his phone during break. John dread to think what they all thought of his and Sherlocks somewhat unhealthy relationship with each other.

Stomping all the way home he continued to call and text and outwardly yell at an invisible Sherlock while making his way from the Surgery and back to 221B Baker street. The bus had been full and the next one wasn't due for another half an hour, he wasn't prepared to wait that long when he could be back home in an extra fifteen minutes – in retrospect it had probably saved him and everyone else the earache of listening to his and Sherlocks one sided (for now) domestic. He just wanted to get home and throttle Sherlock.

Providing he was back.

When he threw open the door to Baker Street however he was met with the smell of Chinese being re-heated and the sound of Sherlock playing 'Row, row your boat' on his Violin, Rosie's favourite and as he climbed the stairs two at a time he could hear her laughing and clapping and Sherlock grumbling about his talents being wasted on her. He paused briefly at the door; Sherlock wouldn't have heard him over the sound of his violin and he could hear Sherlock and Rosie perfectly through the door.

His anger although still hot and demanding slowed into a gentle simmer as Sherlock moaned about classical musical and how it damaged his skill and reputation to be playing silly nursery rhymes at all hours of the day and night; smiling as he kissed the top of Rosie's head and told her that it didn't matter really as long as she was happy. As long as John was happy.

How was he supposed to burst in and shout at Sherlock for taking Rosie to a crime scene when in reality it had probably taken a lot of affection and trust for the consulting detective to even consider taking her. Sherlock was fussy and picky—he liked things a certain way and hated when he was forced to change. He didn't let just anyone tag along with him while he worked, he didn't like distractions and a baby had to be one of the biggest distraction going. What with her constant and inaudible babbling and fits of tears and then there were the 'awws' and 'ooh' that came to any man with someone under the age of 10 attached to them.

Shaking his head, John hated himself a little. He knew that he should have been angry and that defending Sherlock was only going to make Sherlock think that what he did was okay. That he should do it again. But going in and starting and argument over it was probably the wrong way to go about it as well. Especially considering that this whole thing between them was still new and fragile and John had seen that Sherlock was trying his best given the circumstances.

So he turned the doorknob and smiled broadly when he caught Sherlock settling Rosie into her basket. His mobile phone on the counter flashing up that his voicemail was full and a string of texts in bold capital letters and Johns name at the top. Sherlock stood stiffly, his shoulders back and his chest out ready to take whatever John was going to say—probably do a little back chatting of his own before sulking off to bed without any dinner.

He had other methods after all of showing Sherlock that he'd upset him.

But John merely moved to stand next to him, greeted Rosie in that overly high-pitched voice that made Sherlock cringe and then kissed the consulting detective on the cheek.

"Don't take her to crime scenes Sherlock."

"A bit not good?"

"Yeah, it's a bit not good." John smiled.


End file.
